


Reuptake

by Shayvaalski



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fic Exchange, Gender Issues, John Watson is a tool, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Prompt Fic, Trans Character, Translock, breaking the sex mold, heed the warnings please, sex drive issues, sexmold1, shiftingbones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock asks John to help him get on anti-depressants, John doesn't at first think any of it; after all, he wants to do what's best for his partner. It's when it becomes apparent than Sherlock is taking them for reasons almost entirely unrelated to depression that things get a bit, well. Complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reuptake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shiftingbones](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shiftingbones).



> Prompt: "Sherlock asks John for advice on how to control his suddenly active libido. What does John do when the medication he prescribes doesn't work? Does Sherlock expect John to continue helping him? How does he attempt to help, if at all?"
> 
> It's possible it got away from me a little.

“John,” says Sherlock with his eyes shut and it’s in that quiet considering tone John is used to by now, the one that means _I’m about to ask you for something you won’t like._ They are in the front room; they are on the couch, Sherlock’s head resting against John’s thigh, one of John’s hands in Sherlock’s hair, the other propping up a book. He’s been nearly silent for forty minutes; not long as John counts these things, and he tugs gently on dark curls. 

“Yeah?”

Pale eyes flick open and brush his face, and John thinks for no good reason that they are less piercing than usual, less interested, that Sherlock is not looking for small details, not seeing _date last night_ or _haven’t heard from Harry wonder why._ John frowns. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smile, smoothes out. He presses into John’s thigh, incrementally, and then closes his eyes again before he speaks. 

“Are you qualified to prescribe anti-depressants? My research suggests SSRIs may be the most effective in this case, but I would value your—” 

“ _Sherlock_.” 

Sherlock goes quiet. His eyes stay closed. 

“Hey. Look at me.”

Sherlock looks, and John’s sure now that there’s something tired about his gaze, faint lines of strain and poor sleep. Even though John has seen him to bed every night for months, has sometimes followed him there to read the paper and doze, hand stroking soft down Sherlock’s neck and spine. 

“You serious?” he asks and Sherlock nods, looking suddenly as awkward as John has ever seen him. He considers pressing, asking _when did this start_ or _what can I do,_ but Sherlock won’t appreciate being fussed over (when sick, which is rarely, the man will vanish for hours or days, snarling at John when he brings tea and toast, preferring to be miserable alone) and so John doesn’t say anything. Tangles his fingers into Sherlock’s hair again, and Sherlock sighs. 

“I can. Well. Ask Ella to recommend someone. Not really my area, yeah?”

Sherlock presses up into his hand in thanks, and they don’t say anything more, and John doesn’t remember a single word of anything he reads. 

 

 

Five weeks later an Erlenmeyer flask hits the far wall and John jumps, transitioning from a periodic and surreptitious evaluation of Sherlock’s mental state to much more immediate concern. He’s on his feet and into the kitchen in a matter of seconds to find the other man bowed over the kitchen table, palms flat, head hanging down between his shoulders, breathing hard. John approaches slowly, puts his hand in the middle of Sherlock’s back; Sherlock hunches away from it, shakes his head hard. Usually he leans into touch, sybaritic, and it’s John who has to extricate himself.

“You alright?”

A harsh bark of laughter and pale eyes lift, water-colored, to slam into his. There is nothing dull or tired about them, and they drag over John’s face and he feels _exposed,_ all his secrets laid out in front of Sherlock, like he is being disassembled, and if this is him healthy then John would really prefer—somewhat uncharitabley, he knows—that Sherlock was still unwell. He looks unusually white, and more than that, he looks furious. Almost betrayed, and when he straightens up John notices that there is something terrifyingly delicate about the way he holds his body. 

“Sherlock—”

One long-fingered hand comes up; John closes his mouth on the rest of the sentence while Sherlock seethes, nostrils flared. 

“They’re not working.” 

Ah. 

“You have to give them time, Sherlock. Antidepressants can take six to eight weeks to kick in, surely Dr. Vaziri told you that, it’s only been just a bit over a month—” 

“That’s not what I mean.” 

It sounds like Sherlock is forcing the words out through clenched teeth, and there are two spots of color high in his cheekbones. John makes a noise he hopes is soothing, reaches out to catch the hands Sherlock is clenching against his hips, white-knuckled. Sherlock jerks back and John frowns, doesn’t pursue him. They’re still learning, aren’t they, what they can and can’t do, where the lines are in a relationship that no longer looks quite like flatmates but isn’t anything near boyfriends; they aren’t sleeping together—not having sex, anyway—and the one time Sherlock kissed him it was on the cheek near his ear, fondly, while leaning over the back of a chair and critiquing his blog. John had made an annoyed little sound at being interrupted, Sherlock’s lips had brushed his skin, and that was all. It’s almost bafflingly platonic, and somehow at the same time the most romantic relationship John has ever been in and, up until this moment, the simplest. 

“What do you mean, then?”

Another empty little silence, Sherlock almost vibrating, and then he looks up and away, his neck a thin tense line like the curve of a violin. He presses a hand roughly over his mouth, and John can see the harsh set of his jaw. 

“I mean,” says Sherlock, so low John has to lean in to catch the whole of the sentence, “that it doesn’t _matter_ when they kick in, because that’s not why I’m _taking_ them.” His throat works, eyes nearly closed; John’s heart is in the back of his throat because Sherlock has a history, doesn’t he, of abusing drugs, and if John’s somehow helped with that he will never, ever forgive himself— “I don’t want to talk about this,” says Sherlock, and turns sharply as if to storm out. John catches his arm, not gently. Sherlock flinches, all over, and John lets go, and neither of them moves, chests heaving. 

“Why were you taking them?”

Pale eyes, pale face, pale hands through dark hair. 

“For the side effects.”

“ _What_ side effects? You’re never enjoying the—what, the nausea? the not sleeping?—Jesus, Sherlock, this is—”

“Reduced sex drive.” 

“I—what?”

Sherlock almost smirks but it lacks impact, and he sags back against the counter, fingers tracing the lip. “Do try to keep up, John. You heard me perfectly well. There are no drugs currently being manufactured that are meant to—and effectively do—inhibit libido, so this was the best, ah... stopgap.”

John rubs the back of his neck, torn between concern and amusement, and does _not_ glance down Sherlock’s body because that would be a Bit Not Good and is also not (John is relieved to once again reaffirm) something he’s terribly interested in doing. Sherlock looks almost brutally furious and also—humiliated? It’s a word John hesitates to apply to the man but he’s seen that look often enough on people with the opposite problem.

“Are you quite finished?” Sherlock’s vowels are clipped and his consonants hard, and he is no longer tracing the countertop but gripping it. “I assure you that I do not find this in the least amusing.”

And he really doesn’t look like he does, does he? John drops his hand, tucks it into his pocket, and leans back against the table, softens his body language because Sherlock is singing like a plucked string. 

“I’m sorry. Sherlock. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just... it’s about the last thing I expected to hear from you. I didn’t think you, um.” John searches for the appropriate word, or phrase, or... whatever. “I didn’t think that was something that concerned you at all. I mean, you said you were—”

“Asexual. Yes. I know.” Sherlock pulls a face. “Therein lies part of the problem; my body is not always in accordance with what I know to be true. The other part is. Too complex to engage with at this juncture.” John knows Sherlock well enough by now to know that the more convoluted his language becomes, the more worked up he is likely to be. “It has been... a very long time since it was an issue. The way I handled it previously is—” He flicks his wrist. “No longer an option.” 

“And how did you—” John cuts himself off ( _this is a drugs bust)_ and raises a hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Can’t you just, I don’t know. Take care of yourself? Until it goes away, at least.”

Sherlock makes a pained noise, head tilted back, and John is suddenly horrified at himself, at the way Sherlock’s whole body goes tight and strained and somehow thinner, and he holds out both hands, not quite touching. Sherlock’s shaking his head, thin-lipped, and he’s gesturing towards his body, dismissive and desultory. 

“I’m not really capable—” he starts.

“Don’t—I don’t—Sherlock. Alright. Stupid suggestion. It’s fine. You’re fine. I didn’t mean.” John huffs out a breath and rubs at his face, guilty. “So it’s not an option. I.” And then John goes very, very still, and looks up at Sherlock who is slowly relaxing again. He’s a handsome man; John knows this. Has known it for a long time, the way he slouches around the flat in pyjama bottoms, smooth line of neck and back over his experiments, never, against all odds, getting any sort of chemical on his milk-pale skin. The high arch of cheekbone and the surprisingly full lips, the dark soft hair. John swallows. He is almost amused at himself. Almost, and he can’t quite believe what he says next. 

“Do you um. Want me to help?”

And it is Sherlock’s turn to freeze. Half-lidded eyes snapping wide and colorless. “I was not aware,” he says, harsh, “that you were at all interested in me. In fact, you were very clear on that you were not, and that was a not insignificant reason behind my—comfort with our current situation, and had you made it appropriately _apparent_ some time ago what your true intentions were then I would have _reconsidered_ entering into such an arrangement—” 

He’s rattling it off like deduction, rapid-fire, and even from arms length John can tell he’s breathing too fast, that’s he’s angry, that he is about to storm out and no hand on his arm will stop him. Sherlock is stronger than he looks, and faster, and less in control, and John takes a step forward, catches his wrists.

“Sherlock. Stop.” 

Sherlock stops, nostrils flared. 

“I’m not gay,” says John, quietly. “Really, I’m not. We’ve been over this. Rather a lot, considering that it’s something we both already know. I’m not interested in sleeping with you—well. Aside from how I do now.” He smoothes his thumbs over Sherlock’s tendons until they loosen. “And you know that’s not. Not sexual. _Sherlock._ Hey.” The man is easing, warily, head tipped a little back; slowly he turns his hands over until he is gripping John’s wrists. 

“The way you phrased it,” John says gently. “Sounded like you might have a bit of a hang-up ah. Touching yourself. Linked in with the asexuality, maybe, and I thought, well, I’m a doctor and more importantly your um. Your partner, and—” He manages a bit of a grin; Sherlock still looks distant and preoccupied. “I know my way around a man’s equipment, or I should hope I do or I would have been pretty bloody hopeless at getting myself off for the past—”

Sherlock makes a choking noise; John looks up to see him laughing, ugly and rough. His wrists twist again, and John is caught between letting him loose and holding on to him until Sherlock looks less like he will shatter or bolt. 

“John Watson,” he says finally and his eyes are unreadable, his mouth a thin stark line. “You have no idea what you are offering.”

John scoffs. “Look, unless a circumcision went _really_ badly, I hardly think—” 

“Don’t.”  

Something about the way Sherlock’s voice rings thin and strange makes John shut up, and shut up fast. Sherlock pulls a hand away, presses it over his face; but he leave the other one where it is, fingers curled now against John’s palm. 

“I did not,” says Sherlock stiffly and again his voice sounds like it is about to crack, “plan on having this conversation with you. But you are, as you say, my partner, so I suppose I must consider it something you are owed.” John starts to object and a rainwater-blue glare through long fingers stops him. “It’s always been Sherlock, of course—” (and that is inane and a non sequitur and of _course_ it’s always been Sherlock, the great poncing upperclass git) “—even when I was a little girl, though Mummy mostly called me Shirley. Family name, you see—” And he’s still talking but John’s ears are roaring with white noise and shock. He is staring at Sherlock’s mouth, at the hand that has dropped back down to take his, at the slender bones of it. 

Sherlock stops talking. His grip tightens against John’s palm, and then he says quite calmly, “You didn’t know, did you.”

John shakes himself, trying to clear the ringing from his ears. He is staring at Sherlock’s mouth. He is staring at his hands and the angle of his hip, the smooth pale line of his neck, slowly growing tighter. He is failing to breathe, and Sherlock is smoothing his wrist with long delicate fingers and not quite looking at him. His mouth is set in a thin line and John finally, finally chokes out, “Didn’t know _what,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock is beginning to look angry, an inward-directed seething rage that John knows from when he gets one important detail wrong in a litany of them, and if John could move he would pull away until this was all explained, preferably in small words. He cannot move, and there is a flush starting high on Sherlock’s cheekbones. 

“I thought you might have,” he says, softly. “Indeed I had hoped so. Assumed so. Without much evidence, I admit, but—” Sherlock shakes his head, and his thumb presses gentle against John’s pulse and then releases. “My mistake, of course. I had not realized that my... my presentation was so total and so successful as to not be noticed by a medical professional living in my home. I suppose I should be pleased.” He lets go of John entirely, and steps back. His voice is very quiet and very even. “I had believed spelling it out would be merely, ah. A formality. My apologies.”

John’s hand goes to his mouth and he stares at Sherlock over it and swallows beneath it and cannot seem to find the words he wants. Sherlock is knitting his fingers together, eyes pale like clouded water and gaze elsewhere, and he is saying something John only half-hears, something about moving to his own bed for the night or perhaps the next few. John is shaking his head. Is reaching blindly for Sherlock’s intertwined fingers. Is saying, “I need. Sherlock. I need to think about this. Can you give me a little time. Can you give me—an hour. Two hours. No more than that. I swear.” 

And Sherlock is nodding. Sherlock is delicately removing his hands from beneath John’s, and Sherlock is going down the hall and shutting the door to his room. John blinks. Blinks again. Reaches for his jacket and goes down the stairs and out. 

 

 

Almost two hours later he is at the bottom of the stairs, listening. He’s been there for five minutes, and he has another three before it will have been too long, before he’ll have broken his promise, and for a reeling heartbeat John thinks about turning around. About going back out the door. About the twitch of Sherlock’s fingers before he pulled away, and John makes a noise in the back of his throat and goes upstairs. 

Sherlock is in the kitchen, bent over and leaning his elbows on the table, brows drawn together as he watches pale-green liquid hiss down the side of a flask he has tilted at an angle just short of forty five degrees. When John pauses in the doorway he looks up, and his face is carefully composed, nearly blank. He smiles, small and absent, and John suddenly wonders if they are going to talk about this at all. 

The answer seems to be no, because Sherlock straightens, sets down the flask, and says in a perfectly normal voice, “Fancy a cuppa?” There’s no tremor, no hesitation, nothing. An ordinary afternoon, teatime at four o’clock because they do try to be ordinary sometimes, act like a couple might, and John just gapes. 

“Sherlock—”

His shoulders tighten, then carefully loosen again, muscle by defined muscle, and nothing about him looks feminine, and Jesus, John has seen his with his shirt off, how— “Earl Gray or darjeeling, John?”

“Earl Gray,” says John automatically, and then, “Come off it, we need to—”

“We’re out of cream. You’ll have to take it black.”

Silence, Sherlock pulling down two mugs and leaning hip against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. John runs his hands through his hair, chewing on the inside of his cheek until he can taste copper and iron. 

“Fine,” he says, short and tight, and Sherlock whirls, all of a sudden, mouth open like there’s something he’s about to say—and then checks back. Snaps his teeth together and slouches back against the counter. Smiles. The strain of it pulls at John’s stomach and heart, so he takes a half-step forward, hands a little raised like he’s trying to show he’s unarmed. Sherlock makes the same kind of soft jagged broken noise he’d made when John suggested taking care of himself, but almost thoughtfully this time, like a warning. He puts the mug down just a little too hard, turns his back, and reaches for the whistling kettle. 

The tea is poured and sugar added before Sherlock says, casually, “I’ve moved my things to my old room. I thought it would be best, considering the circumstances.”

“Sherlock—”

“I’m not interested in arguing.” Sherlock’s finger traces the rim of his mug, delicately. “You made your feelings about—you made them very clear when you left, John.” He glances up, and there is a steel flash of anger before his eyes go pale and expressionless again. The breath goes right out of John’s body; he can’t do anything but shake his head, hands clenching around his tea. Sherlock is still talking (there is no shutting Sherlock up, there is _never_ any shutting Sherlock up), still going on in that unfamiliar even voice, something about _gendered assumptions_ and _foolish of me_ and John could almost weep in frustration. 

“Will you just sodding shut _up_.” John doesn’t quite yell it but almost, so that it cuts across Sherlock’s litany like a knife. Sherlock pauses mid-syllable. His chin is high and stubborn, and John aches with it, with how he can read pain in the line of his jaw. Without thinking he puts a hand to it, and the way Sherlock closes his eyes for a heartbeat makes John put down his tea and lift his other hand until he is cradling Sherlock’s face between them. 

“Is this why—” John swallows, finds his voice again. “Is this why you didn’t want me to touch you, before. Because you didn’t want me knowing. Because I. If it is, I don’t—I don’t mind, I just needed to. To think, and if that’s what it was then I can help, just to take the edge off until we find some other way to—”

Sherlock jerks back and John gasps out, “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry,_ I don’t sodding know what you want from me—” 

“Not that,” grits Sherlock but he doesn’t pull any further, and John can feels the muscles in his neck tense and trembling. “Never that, John.” His hands come up to wrap around John’s wrists, and for one awful moment he thinks Sherlock is going to pull them away, walk out, and then he doesn’t. They just stand. John cautiously smoothes his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone; Sherlock makes another soft sound and steps forward, and John can feel all his bones and narrow angles pressed against his chest and hips. 

 

 

Sherlock’s face is tucked into the nape of John’s neck. It’s easier like this, in their familiar bed, with Sherlock’s hand on John’s hip, their bodies carefully not quite touching. Easier when they’re not looking at each other, and John will think about that later. He laces his fingers in with Sherlock’s, is rewarded by a faint squeeze and a little intake of breath. It’s still light outside. 

“You might have told me,” says John, finally, and when Sherlock flinches adds, “I mean about what you actually wanted the antidepressants for.”

Lips touch the base of his skull. “I had—wished to avoid the situation we currently find ourselves in. Where you felt compelled to, ah. Offer a kind of help I had no wish to accept.”

John lets that sit for a moment, tracing over carpals, metacarpals, distal phalanges. Sherlock hums against his neck, shifts an inch closer. John grins a little, leaning back into him. “Shame you don’t want it, though,” he says, and his grin gets a bit wider. “Have to say, I know my way around a woman’s body much better than I do another man’s, I could’ve—” 

Sherlock jerks away, leaving John cold at hip and hairline, and sits up in a rush. There’s another moment where John thinks he’s going to leave again and then Sherlock bows his head, clenches his fingers into dark hair like he’s about to fly apart. “I started hormone therapy when I was a good deal younger, John,” he says quietly, as John struggles to catch up with the sudden change. “It was the logical first step in dealing with an admittedly severe, if remarkably localized, case of gender dysphoria. Mycroft suggested it. Indeed, Mycroft did much of the legwork, which was and remains—” a sharp twist of a grin “—unlike him. It. Helped, although more slowly than might have been preferred, given that Mycroft was not at that time willing to supply me with needles and so I had to make do with testosterone gel. He thought it risky. Idiot. As if I didn’t have access—” Sherlock stops. His hands drop into his lap and he shrugs. John reaches out to touch the back of his wrist, and Sherlock allows it.

“In any case. I managed to avoid the—the least desirable and unfortunately most common effect of hormones through a combination of an innate asexuality and being exceedingly hard on a body that was not quite finished growing.” Another little quirk of his mouth. “Lord only knows how tall I might have been with enough sleep and food, and with fewer stimulants. Alas.” He runs his thumb over his lower lip. “I went off it some years later, once I had effected the necessary changes and gone through corrective surgery. Thankfully I started from an unusually masculine baseline; I somewhat regret not retaining a sample of my blood, as it may have been interesting to—” Sherlock slides his eyes over at John and closes his mouth. Taps his fingers restlessly against the coverlet, then steeples them beneath his chin. “To come to the point. I recently began injecting testosterone intramuscularly, due to my concerns about proper distribution of weight—don’t give me that look, John, it came with a prescription.” 

John realizes that he’s staring, that he maybe looks something close to horrified, and glances away. Sherlock makes a noise very like a laugh, and briefly covers John’s hand with his own. “The problem,” he says quietly, “is that I am much better fed and rested these days, and much less likely to abuse cocaine—mostly owing to your presence, John—and so I find that the effect which I had heretofore avoided has become somewhat, ah. Inevitable. To my distress.” He says this last very softly, and John slides an arm around narrow shoulders, pulls him close. “My body,” Sherlock goes on, “has its own ideas about what it wants. It’s not something I am willing to give, John. In any form. I—I appreciate your offer. It was kindly meant.” He leans, presses his mouth to the skin below John’s ear, awkward and tender. “But bad enough to be built as I am, without acknowledging it so readily.”

“I’m sorry,” says John, after a set of heartbeats where he just moves his fingers in incremental motions along Sherlock’s bicep. “I didn’t know.”

“I’m aware. Perhaps I should have told you sooner, but—” Sherlock shrugs, and draws John back down towards the pillows until they are both horizontal. John shifts a little, until Sherlock’s head is on his shoulder, his arm curled around Sherlock’s lower back. _Forgive me_ , he doesn’t say, and Sherlock’s hand comes to rest on his sternum in something that isn’t an answer. 

“Not letting you stay on the SSRIs, Sherlock.”

Sherlock makes an affronted face and John shakes his head. 

“They might still work, given time—”

“No.” Sherlock lifts his gaze a little more, enough to glare, and John threads his fingers into dark curls, holding him safe and steady.  “It’s medically unnecessary, and if you’re not actually depressed—” The slight upward cant of his voice is a question; Sherlock gives a little sideways flick of his head. “—then you shouldn’t be taking them. We clear on that?”

There’s an uneasy silence. Sherlock presses the hand that is not curled against John’s chest over his own, unconsciously, and then nods. 

“We’ll figure something out,” says John, and reaches for the light.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried, inasmuch as it's possible without firsthand knowledge of either drug, to present both testosterone and SSRIs correctly—Blue checked them over for me but any major mistakes are entirely mine. 
> 
> I also want to make it clear that Sherlock's transition, and his experience of his gender, shouldn't be taken as gospel in any way, shape, or form. This is how he handles it; it might not be how a single other person handles it, and it certainly shouldn't be used as a guidebook. All trans* people are different. 
> 
> Betas were andthebluestblue, atrickstertype, and treesong. Thanks boys <3


End file.
